


Upbraid

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Biting, Breathplay, Completely Consensual, Hair-pulling, M/M, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>up·braid<br/><b>/ˌəpˈbrād/</b><br/><i>verb</i><br/>past tense: upbraided; past participle: upbraided<br/>find fault with (someone); scold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upbraid

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this (very nsfw) picture](http://lolisoup.tumblr.com/post/123159060184/nsfw-fma-pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top).

Roy’s hands twist quickly, the gloved hands digging into the three bundles of fiber that make up the golden braid, undoing it with a speed that is—adequate, if not completely desirable.  The undone strands fall to the side, forgotten, as he counts in his head—

“General, what are you doing?”

His fingers freeze and he looks up.  Riza’s faint frown contains equal parts confusion and disapproval.  He drops his project, folding his hands in front of him and resting his elbows on his desk.  "Nothing.  You have something to report?“

Her eyes flick to the uniform braid dangling from his shoulder, disheveled and untidy, but within another moment she shifts her attention back to him.  "Yes.  I’ve received news…”

—

“Heard that you might be in hot water, Colonel.”

Ed can see Roy’s eyes narrow at the insubordination of address with a rank from years—lifetimes ago.  You’d think he’d get used to it, he reflects, but apparently not.  Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

“Not as much as you’re going to be if you continue that nonsense,” he replies with a scoff, sliding the jacket off of his shoulders and hanging it up in _such_ an orderly fashion.  Ed has, as always, a sudden need to see him _lose_ that composure.  "You should show some respect for—“

"After what happened at Drachma this morning?”  Ed smirks.  "From what I hear, you’re _definitely_ in hot water.“

Roy freezes, his left hand poised to start pulling at the fingers of his right glove, and his gaze practically slices through the air as it whips in Ed’s direction.  He lowers his hands, leaving the gloves on.

Ed suppresses a shiver.  That one action always promises _so_ much.

"The situation with _Drachma_ has been speedily resolved,” Roy replies coolly as he steps towards Ed, lifting his chin so the towering difference in heights is even more pronounced.  "Which you would know, if your information were up-to-date.  As of now, the only one in hot water is yourself.“

Ed ducks to the side, but he’s too slow—like always.  He has a split second to wonder if Roy has caught on that it’s intentional by now, but only just, because the gloved hand that reaches around him, grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of his head, sends all thoughts shooting from his head, everything replaced by streaks of pain.

"Shit,” he hisses, gripping one of Roy’s wrists, but knowing that if he tries to get away, it’ll just increase the pressure in his hair.  "Let me go, you motherfuck—“

Ed doesn’t have the opportunity to finish.  Roy steps forward, crowding him, and behind Ed’s eyelids, squinting with pain, he catches sight of the cold, predatory expression in front of him.

"One day I’ll teach you to control your mouth, Edward.”  Roy’s voice washes through him, sinks down his chest and between his legs and into his toes as his back slams painfully into the wall.  Ed hisses again, trying not to let it become a moan, but it’s a near thing.

“Yeah, but until then, you’re just gonna have to put up with it, huh?”

Roy’s thigh shoves between Ed’s, with such force that, combined with the hand in his hair, hoists him against the wall.  Ed gasps as Roy grinds his knee, the pressure on his erection on the borderline of painful.  He reaches out to grip Roy’s shoulders, summoning enough defiance to glare before he melts into a puddle on his knees.

Roy’s kiss, for a moment, is more teeth than lips, and Ed thinks for just a moment that he’s going to have a mark tomorrow before Roy bites at his jaw, then his neck.  The moan he’s been holding back escapes his lips for a moment, then turns into a yelp as the teeth sink deeper, promising yet another bruise.

“Son of a bitch!” he snaps, struggling forward, but he only succeeds in grinding against Roy’s knee yet again.  With a growl of frustration, he reaches out, grabbing at Roy’s collar and yanking.

The buttons scatter to the floor as they have a hundred times before, and Ed smirks briefly at the knowledge that Roy is going to have to put them all back on again.  The smirk, however, turns again to a wince as Roy’s teeth sink harder into his neck in retaliation, a groan that’s almost a growl in the back of Roy’s throat.

“Shit,” Ed gasps, hands nearly clawing Roy’s uniform off of his shoulders, transmuting the undershirt into pieces without even bothering to try ripping it.  "Learn to warn a guy—“

And then he’s getting his own revenge, nails digging into Roy’s shoulders and dragging down his chest.

 _That_ gets him a response, and Roy’s mouth releases Ed’s neck to let out a choked gasp.

"Payback’s a motherfucker, huh, Roy?”  Ed’s gasp is as audible as Roy’s was, but Roy had gasped first, so it doesn’t count.

Roy doesn’t bother responding, just busies himself with divesting Ed of his shirt in a similarly rough fashion, tossing it to the side.  Ed considers mentioning heading upstairs, to the bed, but his sudden lack of pants and the pressure on the back of his head yanking him forward until his bare knees slam into the wooden floor has him quickly discarding the notion.  Roy shoves him further forward, forcing Ed to his hands and knees.

“Gonna do it yourself, then, Roy?  Make me pay for being a shit, huh?”  He laughs breathlessly, the rough treatment that Roy’s silence promises only making him harder.  "Well, c'mon, Al’s cat gives me a harder time than you are.“

The pressure at the back of his head vanishes for a moment, and he can feel the familiar sensation of Roy fumbling at the tie at the end of his braid.  He huffs in impatience, wondering if Roy will make him wait longer if he complains about—

But his hair comes loose in less time than he thinks is humanly possible, and he finds himself knocked thoroughly off-balance as Roy’s fingers twist in it, grip, and yank his head backwards.

"Yes—shit, Roy—!”  Ed tries to twist his head, managing nothing but an increase of the pressure, and reveling in it.  He gasps at the feel of Roy’s hips pressing against his thighs, his cock hard and promising.

Roy’s gloved hand reaches around to grip Ed’s side.

“Lube,” he grunts out, finally breaking his silence, leaving Ed’s nails digging into the wooden floor with the shaky thread of control laced through the single word.  Ed huffs out a breath of desperate laughter, shifting his hips back and forth.

“No,” he gasps out, spreading his thighs wider.  He can feel Roy tense behind him, can imagine the concealed surprise in his eyes as he glances down and sees—

“Shit,” he breathes, and _there’s_ the crack in his voice that Ed is waiting for, has been since he prepared himself only minutes before Roy arrived home.  "You—“

But he doesn’t get another chance to speak, not for the moment, as he rocks backwards demandingly.  Roy mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _demanding brat_ but Ed is willing to overlook it because shit, he can feel the pressure as Roy presses into him roughly, the stretch just on the side of painful that Ed likes, then snaps his hips forward, filling him completely.

Ed can’t restrain his choked gasp.  ” _Fuck,_ Roy—“

Roy cuts him off with another thrust, this as rough as the last, and Ed groans, bowing his head forward, which elicits another yank from Roy.  He struggles against the tension on his hair, the discomfort a nearly overwhelming counterpoint to Roy’s movement inside of him, until he finally acquiesces, allowing his head to be tilted back at an angle that is almost painful.

He can feel Roy’s other hand trace up his side, his shoulder, and soon the sensation of cloth slides against his throat, pressing against the underside of his chin, a thumb and an index finger pressing firmly against either side of his jaw.

"Yes,” he whispers fiercely, and the hand presses against his throat.

Ed struggles against it, just a little, the way that both of them like it, trying desperately to get any air into his lungs.  Roy continues to fuck him, alternating between cutting him off thoroughly and allowing him just enough to get a breath in occasionally, the bastard.

Ed closes his eyes, the power and control behind the hand leaving him as dizzy as the lack of oxygen, the force of Roy’s hips leaving him with a warm frisson of satisfaction in his stomach.  It hurt, yes, both of them did, but—god, that just made it better, the perfect juxtaposition, and knowing that Roy was… Roy was the one…

The pressure on Ed’s throat vanishes, and he gasps, coughing.  Amidst the haze of overwhelming sensation, he takes a few moments to realize that much longer would have left him unconscious, and he suppresses a surge of disappointment.

Still, that just leaves both of them to focus on the actual fucking, and he presses his ass back demandingly in time with Roy’s thrusts, the faint sting and sound of the slapping of skin together intensifying the tiniest amount.  He’s tilting his head back of his own volition now, back arched, hair slack in Roy’s hands—he doesn’t need it anymore, not that.  But what he does need, Roy isn’t giving him, not really.  Not _enough._

“Shit,” he gasps, still panting, still gulping in breaths of air to recover what Roy had deprived him.  "You—you bastard—“  Roy changes the angle of his thrusts for a moment, increasing the pressure on his prostate, and Ed has to break off, can only get out a strangled "nnhh—” before he’s speechless again, mouth open, eyes closed.  He knows he’s making noises that would be embarrassing if he were thinking about it, but at the moment, they’re indications of his pleasure, marks of everything that Roy was able to draw—to _force_ from him—and he wants more, wants Roy to make him groan and scream and—

“Fuck!”  His lips manage to burst out with a single word, and with it, he remembers, mostly, how to speak.  "Roy—more!  _More!_ “  He grinds backwards again, demanding that Roy _give_ him what he needs, rough and hard and unforgiving and _wonderful._   He can vaguely hear Roy say something—but it doesn’t matter, because after a moment of uncertainty, where they both seem to fumble with their rhythm, Roy _is,_ the force behind his thrusts increasing until Ed isn’t sure if he’s going to break—and isn’t sure he doesn’t want to.

"Yes,” he manages, before all powers of speech flee him again, and when he feels Roy on his prostate again, he lets out a moan that’s closer to a keen, cutting off with a strangled cry.  He can feel the vibrations rumbling through him as Roy groans, his hand reaching down to grip his side again—

And that’s what does it, the pressure and the noise behind him.  He feels it, the precipice, knowing it’s going to be only a few more moments—

And then he’s there, tipping over into rolling waves of pleasure that seem to last far longer than they do, an incoherent moan on his lips and a hand pressing bruises into his ribs.

Somewhere, he notices Roy continue, a desperate grunt in his throat as he’s still moving inside Ed, feeling him tense and spasm and arch, but it isn’t for much longer, and Ed feels it when he stops, buried inside, grip tensing with a gasp as he empties inside Ed.

Other sensations come back slowly—the trembling of his arms as they support both of their weight, the pressure of Roy still pressing against him— _inside_ him, the cramp in his thigh from being spread so far out to the side, but they’re minor nuisances as he returns to reality, gasping, eyes fixed intently on the floor in front of him.

He finally hears Roy groan, feels him slide out, hears the thump as he falls back on the carpet, buck-ass naked.

Ed has to huff out a little bit of laughter at that one.

“You—” he tries to say, but his voice, throat still sore from earlier, cracks, and he has to clear his throat and swallow a few times before trying again.  "Y'know,“ he finally manages to drawl out, "maybe if you handled the Drachmans the same way—”

The thump of the swat against the back of his already sore head, as well as his undignified squawk of surprise, kinda kills the postcoital mood, but Roy’s expression makes it worth it.

—

“General,” Riza snaps, and Roy glances up in wariness and surprise, his progress halted yet again, the nearly undone uniform braid trapped between his frozen fingers.  He tries not to scowl at her; he had been making good time.

“Yes, Major Hawkeye?”

“Will you _please_ tell me what you’re doing?  And stop whatever it is, as well.  You have reports to complete.”

Roy sighs, redoing the braid before fastening it back in place.

“I’m practicing,” he murmured, pulling a stack of paper towards him, and with a quick glance up at her face, he can tell from the exasperated expression that she really didn’t want to know that.

He just smirks.


End file.
